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Amateur Transplants

Two doctors singing smutty songs at a piano.

The Regal, Fri June 17th 2011

Location

I’ve never quite managed to believe the theory of the Six Degrees of Separation. Yet I would swear that every other medic I know seems to be somehow connected with the Amateur Transplants A.K.A. Adam Kay and Suman Biswas. The latter half of these doctors-turned-comedians was unfortunately not present at Friday’s performance at the Regal, Cowley Road. So a slightly forlorn-looking Adam had to do the (as he put it) ‘ethnically cleansed’ version alone, preceded by support act Jonathan Elston.

It was with a slight feeling of foreboding that I sank into my seat at the spacious former Bingo Hall. I had listened to these guys on YouTube - heck I’d even played some of their clips whilst teaching medical students – but I wasn’t quite sure to what depths of toilet humour their repertoire might sink. Honestly, it sunk quite low, but they can be forgiven, as I haven’t laughed out loud this much in a long time.

Their act usually centres on performing alternative, often health-related, lyrics to hit songs, with puns flying and rhyming galore. I was surprised at just how non-medical tonight’s content was: firm favourites The Drugs Song and The Anaesthetist’s Hymn made an appearance, but I couldn’t suppress my giggles at Wheezy on Sunday Morning and Iranian men. They are obviously trying to reach a wider audience, which was reflected in the crowd.

‘Bourgeois Brats’, they have been described. Maybe. Not everyone, for example, has a smartphone to Tweet their song requests over mid-performance. Personally I would find them even funnier if they moved away from playground smut, misogyny and swearword currency towards genuine wit and humour, which they can display in abundance. For example, the parody of Hallelujah fuelled and fulfilled, in equal measure, a slightly nerdy desire in me to ‘diagnose’ the missing words. ‘Paracetamoxyfrusebendroneomycin’ is something we’ve all probably wished someone would patent and I don’t think I’ll be able to enter the London Underground again without remembering *that* song.

In summary, are these boys offensive? Sometimes. Do they need to grow up a bit? Probably. Do they hate women? I doubt it. Are they a deliciously, hilariously guilty pleasure? ‘Fraid so.